The Change in the Constant
by hoodie622
Summary: During a particularly horrific case, Bones makes a mistake she’s not sure she can make up for. Set Season 4. Brennan POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Change in the Constant

**Author:** Hoodie622

**Pairing: **B/B

**Rating: **PG-13

**Spoilers: **Set in Season 4 – post _Bone that Blew_ but before _Mayhem_. There are no specific spoilers here, but for me this is where it fits from a character development POV.

**Summary:** During a particularly horrific case, Bones makes a mistake she's not sure she can make up for.

**A/N:** I started this fic last December, got three-quarters of the way through, and then hit a huge roadblock with it. I finally was able to dig it out and finish it. My challenge to myself at the time was to write first person Brennan. I usually write third-person fics with changing POV, but I wanted the challenge of trying to write Brennan as the narrator—being able to write only what she would notice about what is going on around her. The challenge of making her a perceptive narrator while still keeping her Brennan was exceptional, but I think I succeeded, if only in part. Because this was so much work, I would truly value your opinions.

Also, enormous thanks go out to CupcakeBean, who beta'd this for me.

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**Chapter 1**

**---------------**

**Friday, 9:30pm**

I don't very often encounter cases that make me question my choice to focus on the forensic branch of my profession rather than the historical. I thrive on my work. It is my constant. But this – five little boys, seven or eight years old, kidnapped, violated, dismembered and buried in an abandoned construction site along the Anacostia – was the type of case that made even my stomach turn.

I wasn't the only one. As I stood at the kitchen sink in his apartment, staring at the shining silver tile lining the wall, I could not wipe from my memory the look on my partner's face when he'd ascended the stairs at the lab and observed every table on the platform occupied by a tiny set of bones. He choked, closed his eyes and took a deep breath of composure before striding across the platform to my side.

"Have you been able to," he began.

"Yes. Angela has the files. The oldest victim went missing,"

"_Boy_, Bones. The oldest boy," he'd tersely corrected my use of _victim_ but then immediately donned a look of regret.

"Booth, I can't…"

"It's your way. I know. I'm sorry." His eyes fell to the tiny skeleton of Tommy Sandovar. "I'm sorry," he repeated softly on an audible breath and I knew he was speaking to the child as his fingers hovered along (but didn't dare touch) the table. He spoke after a beat, continuing to look down at the small body. "Angela has the names?"

"Yes." I did not envy the burden he carried that day—informing five families of the heinous nature in which their sons had died. "Do you want me to come?"

"No."

I was relieved. Besides, at that point I was more useful in the lab.

He stole my thought. "If we're going to catch this bastard, you should be in the lab," he glanced at me with a small sigh and seemed to be attempting a smile, "doing what you do best." He headed for Angela's office.

"Booth."

He turned, "Yeah?"

"We _will_ catch him, Booth. The answers are here."

"I know."

We did catch him. Of course we did. But not before two more innocents became victims.

Now, I stared into a sink of soapy dishwater. As I fought to rid the pan of baked-on mac and cheese, I also attempted to scrape from my memory the horror of the case and the personal crisis that accompanied it. What was I thinking? How could I have acted so irrationally? Grabbing a knife, I thrust it violently against the stubborn bits of cheddar. Soap splashed in my eyes, but the tears already present kept it from burning too badly. Burning was good. It was a distraction. It gave me something to focus on besides…

"Ow!" I shook my hand to relieve the stinging from the laceration on my third phalange. "Damnit."

"Bones? You alright?"

The voice of my other constant. Well, not _other_. Not really. Work is my constant and Booth is work. Therein lies the problem.

He was immediately behind me with his palms on my shoulders. I shrugged him off and squeezed the finger to stop the flow of blood. I couldn't look at him and although he'd retreated a bit, I could sense his presence as he leaned back against his kitchen table. I examined my finger. The cut wasn't deep. A Band-Aid would suffice. I tried to find a safe topic of conversation, "Is Parker asleep?"

"After three times through _Green Eggs and Ham_, yes. I don't even know why I need to read it to him anymore. He knows it by heart."

"You mean he knows it by memory. The heart is part of the circulatory system. It is impossible to know something in your heart." I snapped more tersely than I'd intended.

With his one step, I felt the warmth of his proximity rise up my spine.

"Bones."

I fought the urge to turn.

"Bones," he tried again.

"What?" I grabbed the sill of the sink with both hands.

He moved closer and spoke over my shoulder, and I tried desperately to rid myself of the flush that came over me with him so near. _I won't cry_.

"I've seen you get shot and not shed a tear."

"So?" I was uncertain of what that had to do with anything.

"So, the logical deduction is that these tears have nothing to do with the pain of slicing your finger."

I turned to correct him. "That's an induction, not a deduction. A deduction moves from a general rule to a specific example. You were moving from example to conclusion." Was that defensive? It was true, but was it defensive? I needed something, _anything_ to stave off the confusion threatening my ever-organized mind.

"What? Bones, what in the hell are you talking about?"

"Nevermind. Since when do you make logical inductions? I thought you relied on your _gut_." I wanted to be angry. I _was_ angry—at this case, at him, at myself, and at the situation in which we'd placed ourselves. But anger, as an emotion, rarely affects a positive outcome in difficult situations.

"Well in this case, my gut tells me the same thing." He smiled.

So much for anger.

I automatically rolled my eyes, but secretly wondered at his uncanny ability to find exactly the right words in seemingly every situation. He was right. I barely felt the sting in my finger. I had examined it thoroughly and determined that it did not require medical attention. Yet, I seemed to be feeling something in my gut, too—a nagging feeling that it was his presence, and not the medical knowledge I had applied in the situation, that made me feel better.

My mind whirled, despite my attempts to calm it. When had he become both a person and a place? He was my partner, yes, but I was finding more and more that I was most comfortable where he was – no matter the location, as if he were a place I go. All week long, as I poured over evidence in the lab, I found that I no longer looked forward to putting in a few extra hours and heading home to a bubble bath and the _Journal of Anthropological Sciences_. Instead, as I put my hand behind my neck and tilted it from side to side to remove the lactic acid buildup, I found myself wondering if he was doing the same, his large frame cramped in a tiny federal sedan on stakeout. I would listen for his footsteps, coming to take me to the Diner in yet another futile effort to convince me that pie is the world's greatest food, and find myself disappointed at hearing only the hollowness of the empty lab. Then I would get disappointed in myself for being disappointed, and remind myself that I was working late because the case demanded it, not because I was waiting for Booth.

But I think I was lying to myself and for once, I didn't want to think.

I allowed my forehead to fall into his chest and relished the warmth of his arms as he cradled my skull with one hand and ran the other up and down my spine. He was brushing the side of his face in my hair, intermittently turning to press his lips to the leading edge of my parietal. This was anything but constant. This was changing and shifting and uncertain. Was it possible that it was still constant at the same time? Was it possible that he was always going to be here, with arms prepared to hold me in moments of weakness that no one but he witnessed?

Too tired to continue that line of inquiry, I began naming the vertebrae as his fingers crossed them—c5, c6, c7, t1, t2, t3. It was like counting sheep until finally my mind drifted off into that place where all that remained was the feel and smell of _him_.

It was only a momentary peace. Confusion refused to relinquish its grip. I needed time to process what was happening – to reconcile the conflict between my mind and my metaphorical heart. Upon ending our embrace, he ran the back of his fingers down my cheek. Without thinking, I turned my face into his knuckles. It wasn't quite a kiss, but the gesture seemed enough to reassure him that I wasn't going to abandon him in a fit of panic. Booth deserved more than that from me.

His eyes sparkled at my action and I knew, as always, that he understood. "Come on," he pulled me toward the sofa, "Caroline needs our notes first thing on Monday."

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How did they get here? Find out in the next chapter...

A/N: The part where Brennan talks about the heart as part of the circulatory system was written long before _Harbingers_. It was one of the first lines I wrote for this fic, back last December. Move over Avalon Harmonia, who's the psychic now?


	2. Chapter 2

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Chapter 2

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**The Previous Tuesday, 12:45am**

We entered my apartment and headed straight to the kitchen. Tumblers clanged in my left hand as I reached for an old bottle of bourbon with my right. I estimate that I poured well more than 200 milliliters into the bottom of the glass and slid it down the counter to him. He downed it without blinking and grasped the glass with white knuckles.

The glass I took for myself was not so full.

"More?"

"Yeah."

The glass sliding across the granite was as fingers on a chalkboard. I hesitated.

He smirked. "Don't worry, Bones. Cards have always been my problem, not booze."

I filled the glass with as much as before, and sent it careening back. He caught it and placed it at his lips in one, smooth motion. Swallowing hard, he allowed the glass to linger in front of his tense jaw. Then he clenched his empty hand into a fist, as if longing for something to grab but unable to find a suitable object.

_Smash._ The glass shattered from his hand as he pounded it against the cold, hard granite. He let out a growl of frustration as he lowered his elbows to the counter and pounded his palms to his forehead.

I needed to do something. In this situation, logic suggested that Booth's sudden urge to shatter glass objects was linked to the horrific case that had occupied our every waking – and often sleeping – hours for the past six days. I'd been long nights at the lab after the team had left, pouring over evidence. Booth had been calling me nearly every hour, as if he thought I wouldn't call him right away when we found something new. Two evenings, he'd slept on the sofa in my office, waiting for the piece of evidence that would allow him to locate the bastard and put him away. He looked more and more haggard each day. We all did.

But this day had been the worst so far. The maniac was escalating, knowing that we were on his tail. Another boy had been taken and we were in a race against the clock to locate the child alive. On this occasion, time ran out. Worse yet, the suspect had somehow managed to sneak past the surveillance at the construction site to bury the corpse of his latest victim. Booth could only be described as livid.

I made a decision. He was clearly in need of some sort of physical release. Research has shown that exercise is one of the best ways to relieve stress.

"Take off your tie."

"What?"

I'm not good at reading people, but in that moment I imagined that Booth would much rather be at the shooting range, blowing holes through paper in exact patterns, than sitting in my kitchen.

"Take off your tie," I repeated.

"Bones?"

I swiveled the stool. "Booth. Trust me." I reached up and began loosening the knot myself.

"Alright, alright!" He batted my hands away with a strangely uncomfortable look on his face, but did as I had requested. "There."

"And the jacket."

"Bones…no!"

"I'm your _partner_. Trust me. Take off your jacket."

I grabbed his hand and the keys to my apartment.

"Bones, where are we going?"

"You'll see."

He allowed me to lead him through the hallways and up the stairwell to the top floor of my condo, where the gym for residents overlooks the neighborhoods of NW Washington. At one o'clock in the morning, the room was deserted.

"Come on," I said, removing my earrings and high-heeled boots as I prepared to steady the Everlast bag in the corner of the room.

He shook his head.

"Booth. You've seen me fight. I am plenty capable of steadying this bag, now come on."

He jabbed at the bag with a right hook and then a left, lightly. I knew he was only humoring me. "Come on Booth, give me what you got."

"Bones."

"Pretend I'm a hockey player and you're correcting me."

"Checking, Bones. It's called checking, and you're tough but not that tough."

Okay, the hockey strategy failed. I tried a different approach. "Come on, Booth. Take off your dress shoes, roll up your sleeves, and pretend your bashing the bastard's head in."

That did it. His shoes flew across the room and he popped the buttons from his cuffs. He came at the bag in continual, repetitive motions—each jab, punch, and uppercut laced with disgust at Lawrence Mackevey, the monster we were hunting. I lunged forward, digging my right shoulder into the bag and using all the weight of my frame to steady it. Forced to close my eyes and concentrate on my task, the feel of the bag was my only way of gauging his frustration.

Using senses other than sight was awkward and unbalancing. Normally, I used my eyes for evidence. I sat. I examined. I _saw_ things in bones that other people did not. But this…this was all about _feel_ as the jabs and punches reverberated through the bag. _Smell_ as the breeze created by his flying limbs sent a mixture of his cologne and his sweat wafting into the air. _Sound_ as he settled into a regular and recurring rhythm of strikes and blows. The angrier he became, the more my brain registered the placements of his attacks—at what would be his opponent's ribs and jaw.

As I stood with eyes closed, my awareness of him strengthened in a way I did not expect. I do not react to these cases the way he does. I mourn the loss of these children – every one precious and important – but I am able to keep an emotional distance from the victims. I have to. But Booth reacts viscerally. It works for him. I'm unsure if I'll ever fully understand why or how, but it does, and it is part of what makes him such an excellent investigator.

The longer my brain processed this new, and admittedly somewhat exhilarating, sensory information – this _evidence_ of sorts – the more I realized that my instinct to help was correct. My momentary pride distracted me until the ache developing in my shoulder pulled me back to the task at hand. I lunged further forward, using the strength of my leg muscles to continue my task. I wasn't sure how much more I could take, nor was I sure that he could come much harder at the bag than he already was. I pondered stopping him, not wanting him to damage the interphalangeal joints of his hands.

The sound of my very Catholic partner cursing his maker stopped me from speaking. "Goddamn bastard…innocent boys." the words were mumbled as the force of his blows intensified. "They were c_hildren_!" He accented the final word with a particularly hard blow. "Innocent children!" This time the blow nearly knocked me. "How the hell is someone like that allowed to exist?" I felt the bag steady and knew it was because he had thrown his body against it. He was punching the sides of the bag now, still cursing. "How is this allowed to happen? Jesus Christ!" He used both hands and shoved the bag out of his way, sending me flying backward to the mat.

"Bones!" He stood with a hand extended and I soon found myself standing inches from him, his heavy breaths joining with my own and moving the air around our faces.

My mind froze. It is the only time in my life I ever remember that happening.

"You alright?" He used his fingers as a comb to straighten my hair, disheveled from the fall.

I mustered only a, "fine." He wasn't removing his hands. They were resting along my neck and jaw line. I should have been alarmed. I should have felt awkward. My rational mind should have objected. After all, had I been in a rational frame of mind I would have seen that the line between us, the one I told Sweets didn't even need to be there, was now razor thin.

But his hands didn't feel awkward and my mind was not objecting. My body was _definitely_ not objecting. I leaned in and was greeted with new, powerful sensory information. _Taste_. I was _kissing _him…and not gently. This was hands-tangled-in-hair, lips-full-of-pressure, tongues-exploring, bodies-pressed-together, fighting-for-breath kissing.

Rationality be damned.

He charged forward and slammed me back against the padded wall. I responded by wrapping one leg behind his knees. I swallowed his moan when I slid my fingers beneath his waistband. The entire length of our bodies touched. The friction of the mat bunched my blouse, its vinyl surface sticking to the skin of my lower torso. He put his knee between my legs, lifting me slightly from the floor. The moan that emanated from my lips as his hands found the exposed skin along my ribcage was more like a whimper. He was avoiding the spot where I most wanted his fingers to be. Unable to stand it, I actually reached down and attempted to move his hands to my breasts.

"Always have to be in control of every situation, don't you?" He admonished me in my ear before running his hands down my arms and pinning them above my head. Control? Control! The situation hardly constituted control.

Rational thought only returned when I felt one foot touch the ground. For once, that rational thought didn't come from me. Apparently, my partner was still in possession of his faculties. I felt him breathing heavily into the recess at the top edge of my clavicle, but he had stopped kissing me. His whisper was nearly inaudible.

"Not like this."

I answered with hitched breath. "What?"

Blood rushed back to my arms as he released them from their raised position and replaced his own hands at the sides of my face. The brown of his eyes was eclipsed by shining black pupils.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

"I'm aware that men in our society find me attractive, but beauty is an anthropological construct in which,"

Suddenly he was kissing me again, but differently – lips pressed together and stilled.

"It was a rhetorical question, Bones." His lips continued to brush mine as he spoke.

"Oh."

He was regarding me with far too much intensity for comfort. "We can't do this. Not like this."

"What? Up against the wall in the workout room?"

He laughed. It hurt, and the implication of my actions finally hit me with full force. I lowered my chin to my chest and felt my face warming to scarlet, even more than the flush from hormones. Fear rose in my chest and suddenly my mind was racing. He wasn't speaking about the location. He meant we couldn't do this at all.

I'd just ruined our partnership.

I cursed myself. What was I thinking? How could I possibly set aside rational thought? How could I possibly allow emotions to rule my actions when I know that they cause stupid, irrational decisions? How could I misjudge him so badly? "I'm sorry," I ducked under his arm and headed for the door.

He caught me by the arm. "Sorry? For what?"

I stuttered. "I…for…I had no intention…I wasn't trying to…I was just trying to help. I'm sorry."

"No! Bones, you have nothing to be sorry for! You certainly don't have to be sorry for _this_."

"Aren't you?"

"No!"

"But you said,"

"No. I meant," he squared his body with mine and his tone was suddenly soft. "I meant that this needs to happen because we choose it, not because we can't stop it from happening."

I found myself unable to react to his words. Perhaps I _had_ misjudged him, but not in the way I thought. He looked like he wanted to smile, but his eyes offered a questioning look, as if he was waiting for me to say something. I had no idea what was appropriate to say.

"Booth, I,"

"Look. Let's not talk about this now. We're both exhausted, emotionally raw. I'm going to go home and get some sleep. Then, you're going to do your thing with your squints, and I'm going to do my thing, and we're going to catch this bastard. And then," He grasped my neck and pulled my forehead to his. "Then, we're going to figure this out, okay?"

Neither of us pulled away. The intensity was still there, the desire clearly evident. Why, when my mind was _screaming_ "no," was every part of my body urging me to close the two inches between our lips? I bit my lip to maintain composure, but my nervous energy escaped in a shudder he clearly recognized.

"Bones, Promise me you're not going to balk before we solve this."

"Promise me that _you_ won't."

"I don't balk."

"I know."

My mind battled with my senses again – the warmth of his hands on my neck, the pressure of our skulls, the smell of him, the calm soothing of his voice as he said my name.

"Temperance."

I couldn't remember the last time he'd used my name.

"Trust us. Trust our friendship. Trust our relationship enough to know that, whatever we decide, we _will_ figure this out."

He didn't seem to understand that it was not my trust in him I doubted, it was my trust in myself. With the pressure between our skulls, I could barely move my head enough for a nod. For an undetermined amount of time neither of us moved. I listened to our breathing as it moved in concert.

"Booth," I finally felt calm enough to speak, "aren't you going home?"

"Yeah. I just need to figure out a way to stop touching you."

"You work with me everyday and we barely ever touch each other. It shouldn't be that difficult."

With a deep breath, he let out low groan and finally released me.

I retrieved his shirt and shoes on his behalf, because walking was clearly a bit painful.

"Thanks, Bones."

I looked at him and tried to read him, tried to figure out if he was okay…if we were okay.

I could not tell. We walked back to my apartment in silence.

He stopped short at the door.

"Do you want to come?"

"Bad idea."

"But your jacket?"

"Bring it to me tomorrow?"

"Sure."

"Goodnight, Bones."

"Goodnight, Booth."

I closed the door, put my back against it and slid to the floor. What had I done?

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A/N: A special thank you to all of you who have taken the time to read and put the story on alert. :)


	3. Chapter 3

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Chapter 3

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**Friday 2:00pm**

The case dragged on all week. It wasn't difficult, for the most part, for me to keep my focus. The case demanded everyone's full attention. The details were simply horrific and with so many victims, there was a mountain of forensic evidence. Since Mackevey had managed to sneak past security into the construction site earlier in the week, Booth had made it his mission to personally be on the stake out as much as possible, so I was eating lunch with my father.

"What's on your mind?"

Max has been away for more than fifteen years and I sometimes wonder how, despite that fact, he seems to know me well enough that he can tell when something is bothering me.

"It's nothing." I looked at him and realized he was not going to accept that answer. "This case…"

"I thought you caught the bastard?"

"We did, early this morning. Booth is at his office finishing the arrest paperwork now. But…"

"But what?"

I wondered, is this what qualifies as fatherly concern?

"Booth, he…" I took a deep breath and spoke upon release, "He takes cases like this, with children, very personally. He doesn't compartmentalize the way I do, and I…"

"You want to take away his pain."

Did I? Is that what this was about? I certainly wanted to help him get past the case. I stared at my father. "It is impossible to actually take away pain, Dad."

"No it's not, Tempe. That's part of loving someone, supporting them when they are struggling."

Loving someone…

I attempted to hide the discomfort my father had induced with _that _word. Love is merely the release of serotonin in the brain designed to perpetuate the species, nothing more. Strong emotional connections, despite their cultural significance, serve no rational purpose. But lately, my actions toward Booth had been anything but rational.

I fought the urge to share what had happened with my father. I was desperate for advice. I couldn't talk with Angela because she'd already made her opinion well-known on the subject and the only other person I trusted to talk about these things was Booth, so now I was stuck with no one to talk to.

I changed the topic immediately. "How are Russ and Amy and the girls?"

Max shook his head and reached across the table to place his hand on mine, "When is he happiest?"

"I assume when he's with Amy and the girls. Why? Do you think Russ is unhappy?"

"Not your brother."

"Oh."

"Booth. When is he the happiest?"

That was an easy answer. "Well, if a smile can be considered appropriate evidence of happiness, he definitely smiles most when he's with Parker."

"So…"

"So what?"

"So, the weekend is coming up."

"I don't think it's his weekend. He was supposed to go fishing with Parker last weekend but we've been solid on this case for ten days and…Thanks dad!" I kissed him on the cheek and immediately grabbed my cell phone, speaking as I left money for the tab on the table. Booth had given me the number in case of an emergency. Did this constitute an emergency? It only took me a moment to realize I didn't care. I had a plan and I was going to see it through. "Hello. Rebecca? It's Dr. Brennan…"

As I left, I caught what I think was a smile of approval on my father's face.

* * *

**Two hours Later**

"Daddy!" The little boy sprang across his father's office in the Hoover Building, ignoring the look of shock in Booth's eyes and throwing himself up into his lap.

"Hey buddy! What are you doing here?"

"Bones picked me up at school and said that we were coming to surprise you!"

Booth stared at me over his young son's shoulder. Holding the child close, he mouthed the words to me, "Thank You."

"You're welcome," I mouthed back and smiled. For once I seemed to have done the right thing. My only hope was that it would make up for my horrid actions earlier in the week.

"Daddy, can we go to the park and play football?"

"We absolutely can, little man. Just let me get the files Bones and I will need, okay?"

"I'll do it," I interjected.

My outburst was greeted by a puzzled look.

"What? We've been partners for four years, Booth. I know where you keep your files." I spoke more quietly, away from Parker's ears. "He has a birthday party to attend tomorrow at three o'clock. Rebecca said she'll pick him up from there."

"Meet us later for dinner?"

"I have a better idea."

My statement was greeted by another puzzled look.

I clarified, "I'll meet you at your apartment later with dinner and the case files. Parker, do you like Macaroni and Cheese?"

The child nodded vigorously, "But only the kind in the blue box."

Booth quickly corrected the child, "No, Parker. Bones' mac and cheese is homemade. It's the best."

Parker was unconvinced, "Better than the kind in the blue box?"

"Much better," Booth assured him.

"Promise?"

"Yeah, promise."

Booth threw a disarming smile at me. I used process of elimination. It wasn't the charming smile he used to get what he wanted. It wasn't his "Bones' doesn't get it" smile. It wasn't the smirk he got when he'd just nabbed a suspect. It was definitely closer to the smiles we share when we laugh over fries and milkshakes. But still, something was different and I couldn't quite place what it was.

I'd acted rationally. Booth was having a rough week. I'd completely misjudged him earlier in the week and I wanted to help. I found a logical course of action for doing so. I'd devised a plan of action and carried it out. I knew he was happy to see Parker, and that going to the park with his son would make him feel better. But these logical thoughts could not quell my feeling that I hadn't made things between us any better.

I gathered the files and headed to the grocery store, determined to make things right again.

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A/N: Again, a very special thank you to CupcakeBean, who beta'd this story for me.

Thank you to all of you who have reviewed and put this story on your alerts. In the next chapter, we pick up back where we were in Chapter 1…


	4. Chapter 4

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Chapter 4

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**Friday, 10:00pm**

My partner appeared from the bathroom with a bandage and peroxide for my finger. It impeded my typing ability, but I poured through the case file as we sat side by side on the sofa.

"Do you have to keep _that_ particular image on your screen while you work?"

The computer displayed a particularly gruesome image of the final victim's arm, half buried with binding still on the wrist.

"Sorry," I said, "I was just outlining the particulates that Hodgins matched between the park where the boy was taken and the construction site where we found him."

My partner's lips spread into a momentary grin.

"What?" I asked.

"You said _boy_."

"He _was_ a boy, Booth—a sweet boy, small for his age. About nine months ago, he broke his right radius, probably when he fell during a soccer match or from the monkey bars at school. He had a slight scoliosis in his spine, but that's not all that uncommon, and a deviated septum which means that without corrective surgery, he would have suffered many sinus infections in his life. His right leg is a tiny bit longer than his left, which probably meant that he was experiencing a slight discomfort in the ligaments behind his right knee. Some people call them growing pains. But now," emotion threatened to overtake me. _Now he would never get to outgrow his growing pains._ I cleared my throat and pushed it away, "Now, he is a victim for whom we will offer justice."

I moved as discretely as I could to wipe the tear threatening to fall from the corner of my right eye. I meant only to glance at my partner, but he was staring at me with the same look he'd given me earlier that day when I appeared in his office with Parker.

"That's not what you were going to say."

"What?"

"The part about finding justice, after you cleared your throat, that's not what you were going to say."

"What…how do you know?"

"I know you, Bones, and that's not what you were going to say."

Damn him. "Yes, it was."

"No, it wasn't, Bones. You were going to say that now, Jeffery will never get to grow out of his growing pains, but instead, you cleared your throat, pushed back your tears, and focused on doing your job."

Confusion. Again. Was I supposed to be pleased or frightened that someone knew me that well? Was he trying to push me to admit that I had exhibited a moment of emotional weakness, or just trying to be nice?

"Is there something wrong with doing my job?"

"No, Bones. Absolutely not. In fact, your ability to get the job done is one of the most amazing things about you."

One of the things? There were others?

"You do know that, right? That you're amazing?" He was still regarding me with that same expression on his face. Suddenly, he was too close, leaning into my ear and whispering as if revealing the world's most important secret. "You are an amazing woman, Temperance Brennan."

In that moment I recognized what that look _was_ and more importantly _why_ he looked at me that way. This had all started with a lustful slip-up. I was perfectly willing to accept his gazing at me when his eyes were filled with pent-up desire. I knew that, if my eyes betrayed my thoughts as his did, that I had looked at him in lust plenty of times. I was sure that even if we gave in, we could get past it. It was easy to dismiss the looks as lust. But when he said things like that…

_No, no, no, no. No! _ I tried to stop my spinning mind. The implications were just too complicated to deal with at this moment. Suddenly, that _look_, laced with such intense emotion was paralyzing. I was unable to look away. Why did he suddenly have this effect on me? It wasn't as if we'd never come close before, always staring and holding the line. But now, I realized that this was no longer a "there are certain people that you just can't sleep with" line. No, this was an "if we cross it we can't go back" line. And I couldn't figure out if I wanted to cross it or go back.

"They wouldn't let us work together anymore, would they?" The unsteadiness of my own voice surprised me.

He shrugged his shoulders. "Maybe. Maybe not."

"But we're good at this, Booth. Really good."

"Damn good."

"Right, and if we're not solving murders then," I broke eye contact. "What if solving murders is the only thing we're damn good at?"

"Oh, I can think of at least one other thing that I think we'd be damn good at."

"Booth!" I shoved him in the shoulder hard enough that he tipped against the side arm of the sofa and chuckled out loud. When had my partner suddenly become comfortable discussing sex? Since Tuesday, apparently. The tension eased. He deserved to be complimented in return. "You're pretty amazing yourself, you know."

He winked. "Thanks, Bones."

Still staring, albeit with a smile, and still holding the line.

He read the situation and deflated it, as usual. "So, what evidence do we have that outlines his MO?"

"The insect evidence that Hodgins found indicates that, with the exception of the last victim, the rate of decomposition is nearly identical for each victim. Again, except the last victim, they were all buried twice in the same two locations."

"But we don't know the first location."

"No. Particulates of pollen, as well as high nitrogen and phosphorous content in the soil on each victim's clothing match the playground where they were taken; but, those particulates are very common and certainly not unique to that location." Booth looked uncomfortable. He wanted a sure conviction. So did I. I continued, "Additionally, each victim was killed by a blow to the frontal bone of the skull and suffered a broken right clavicle. The kerf marks on all of the victims' bones are identical, meaning the same saw was used, and traces of organics on the wrists of each victim…" I indicated the photo still present on my laptop screen and gathered my composure again, "match the composition of the twine restraints used on the final victim."

"But we still don't have the murder weapon."

"No. I can tell from the damage to the skulls that each victim was killed by the same weapon, but we don't have it." I could see my partner tensing. "Surely that is not going to be a factor in this case?"

His look did not give me confidence.

"Booth, you found him at the construction site, preparing to bury his final..." I cleared my throat. "Preparing to bury Jeffery Boniventure. With all of the other evidence, surely the murder weapon won't matter. You caught him red handed. Any jury will see that."

"Bones, you know as well as I do that a conviction without the murder weapon is unlikely."

"Yes, that's true."

"Wait, you just said,"

"I was lying to be reassuring, but I'm not any good at that."

"Lying or being reassuring?"

"Either."

Booth continued. "He must have tossed it in the river. The FBI team has torn that construction site apart looking for a flat, pointed surface like you described, but they've come up empty after three thorough searches."

"Then why don't we search ourselves?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow, we'll drop Parker at that birthday party, then we'll go to the crime scene and see if we can find some clue that leads us to that elusive weapon. It's worth a try, don't you think?"

I looked at my partner. This was serious. Why did he suddenly look like a grinning fool? Then it dawned on me, I had said _we'll_ drop off Parker, implying that the dropping off would be happening together...which implied that we'd be leaving to drop him off together...which implied that we'd be leaving from here...which implied that I wasn't planning to leave. I could feel my cheeks burning.

"Red has always been a nice color on you, Bones." He stood and left me to my own embarrassment, returning with my purse, messenger bag, and jacket. "The party starts at three o'clock, but it is on the way from your place to the crime scene, so how about Parker and I pick you up at two-thirty?"

He read me like I read bones. He was giving me an out. He knew that I hadn't intended my statement. Well, I had intended it. The thought of leaving that evening hadn't yet crossed my mind. Still, _he knew_. He knew that the thought had never crossed my mind. He knew that I _had _meant what I said but would never have said it out loud if I had taken time to think before I spoke. Worse yet, he knew that I knew that he knew, but he was still trusting me not let my fear rule my choices.

I stood from the sofa and took my things from him. "This was easier when I wasn't thinking." I looked at the floor.

"I know." He was standing too near again.

Before turning to leave I whispered, "Thank you for trusting me."

I felt him looking right into me. Not at me, as he so often did, and not through me, as he also sometimes did, but _into_ me. I knew that if he kissed me, it would be my undoing. I'd never be able to leave.

"Thank you for earning my trust." My breath hitched as he drew closer and whispered, "Just give it time, Bones. Trust yourself and give it time."

I didn't move. He wasn't pulling me closer or pushing me away. I wasn't leaning into him or stepping back. If I looked up and took the action my body wanted, the decision would be made. If I stepped back, turned and left, the decision could be left for another day.

"Bones," his voice interrupted my thought process, "you changed shampoo."

"Yes. Last week."

He reached for the door handle and opened it for me, leaning in to my ear as I passed, "I liked the old one better."

I turned to face him over my shoulder, "The vanilla?"

"Yeah, the vanilla." He smirked and tilted his chin as if to close the gap between us but instead said, "Good night, Bones."

"Goodnight, Booth."

I took a deep breath once I was alone in the hall. I'd set out this afternoon to make things better—to rectify a mistake. Now, I wasn't even sure I'd made one. I hadn't really seen Booth much because he was on stakeout, and I had worried all week about the consequences of my actions. He had said that we would put off talking about anything until after the case, and I feared that he would be angry with me when the time came. But, nothing in his actions said he was angry. In fact, he seemed to be going out of his way to be nice to me. He was acting very much like…

Booth. He was acting like Booth. Steadfast, kind, handsome. Booth.

Just thinking his name made me want to turn around and knock on the door.

I could not. Not without complete clarity of thought. In that moment, I remained confused, but I was determined not to remain that way for much longer.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title: **The Change in the Constant (5/7 complete)

**Author:** Hoodie622

**Pairing: **B/B

**Rating: **PG-13

**Spoilers: **Set in Season 4 – post iBone that Blew/i but before iMayhem/i. There are no specific spoilers here, but for me this is where it fits from a character development POV.

**Summary:** During a particularly horrific case, Bones makes a mistake she's not sure she can make up for.

**A/N:** This chapter is the longest yet (3,500words). This is always the difficult part of a fic…where, as a writer, you try to stretch the characters in a new direction while still keeping them as themselves. I hope you'll enjoy my efforts here. There is some more in-depth case related stuff, but all as an undercurrent to what's happening between B/B.

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**Chapter 5**

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**Saturday, 3:15pm**

I stood outside the construction site turned burial ground. Using the sun as a backlight, I re-examined the shape of the injuries inflicted by the murder weapon on the x-ray. The damage to the victims' frontal bones was v-shaped, like an inverted triangle missing it's top.

"Find something new?" my partner appeared from behind the SUV.

"Unfortunately, no."

We started walking, Booth lifting each yellow tape barrier and shuffling me through before him. It occurred to me that I'd been wrong in what I said a few evenings ago. It was me who barely ever touched him. He touched me all the time. It was an action he'd taken since very early in our partnership and a concession I made to his overly protective nature. Why did the action suddenly make me so self-conscious? I compartmentalized the questions in my mind and left them for another time, focusing instead on a triangular "pipe" I'd found on the ground.

"So, the weapon was triangular?" He asked.

"Yes, but large, with the height of the triangle being at least one hundred millimeters."

"You mean about four inches."

I tried not to show the disbelief on my face.

"What?" he looked offended. "You think that after four years of listening to your squinty measurements I haven't learned to translate them into real measurements?"

"Booth. The metric system _is_ a 'real' system of measurement. The _rest_ of the world uses it."

"I know." He smiled and moved closer with a challenging glint in his eye. "You know what else I know?"

I raised my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue and found that his lips oddly transfixed me as they twisted with his speech.

"Something like this," Booth took what I determined was a broken piece of construction machinery from my hands, "could _not_ have been the weapon."

I decided to play along, accepting his challenge and walking toward him with a step that was undoubtedly more flirtatious than it should have been. "Why not? It's the right size and shape."

He moved still closer. "No. It's wrong. Look at the x-rays."

My partner was telling _me_ to look at x-rays?I squared my shoulders and met him nose to nose. "I did look at them, Booth. Just a moment ago."

"Then you know that the weapon made a v-shape," he drew with his finger on my frontal bone, "but that the flat top of the triangle is missing."

Why was my breathing heavy? I'd always found my partner attractive but why was that suddenly so difficult to ignore? And at a _crime scene_ no less. Focus, Brennan. Focus.

I played along, "Meaning…"

"Meaning that in order for this weapon to have caused that mark, Mackevey would have had to use it like this," he held my arm and demonstrated using my forehead. "Only a low angle would prevent the third side of the triangle from contacting the bone. The children were far too short compared to Mackevey for that to have happened easily with a weapon of this sort." He was grinning wildly now, as if he expected to be rewarded for his forensic prowess. But his little demonstration wasn't finished yet. "Unless…"

"Unless what?"

"Unless the object we're looking for is already low to the ground. Kneel down, Bones." He put a hand on my shoulder, not giving me the option of objecting, and placed the triangular "pipe" vertically on the ground in front of me. "See," he said, putting his palm on the back of my head and forcing it down toward the butt end of the weapon, "like this."

"There is nothing here that meets those criteria, which supports our contention that the killing did not happen here. Blood evidence also supports that. Look." I pulled out my lamp. "The lamp doesn't show enough blood for the this to be a murder scene."

My partner was clearly agitated. "We already know that the murders happened somewhere else! He snuck in with the body; he didn't commit murder under our noses! But the guy isn't talking, Bones! I've been in the interrogation room with him three times. He just spouts out religious texts about purity, which is more than disturbing considering what he did to those boys before he killed them, and then starts rocking back and forth in prayer position." He started pacing. "None of the profilers can make sense of what he's saying. I mean, the insanity defense will not be a stretch for this guy. The fact is, we have no idea where the murders actually took place. We have the playground, where the boys were abducted, and here, where they were buried. The kidnapping charges will stick, but there just isn't enough forensics to rid a jury of reasonable doubt on murder charges. We need the murder scene and we just don't have it."

"But the answers are here, Booth, somewhere. We just aren't seeing them."

He stopped and put his hands on his hips, "You always say that."

"It's true, Booth! Facts are facts. They still exist whether we know they do or not. When Mackevey killed those boys, he left evidence of doing so. We just need to find it." Now I as pacing. "Okay. These murders were ritualistic. A murder weapon like the one in your hand is a murder weapon of convenience. He would have picked it up and used it just because it was here. Mackevey wasn't like that. He was methodical. It would have been planned. The weapon and its use would have been important to the ritual. The place is probably as important as the weapon itself." I stopped talking. He was staring at me in that way that made me wish I could read his mind.

"Bones," his voice was suddenly soft and a bit less professional than I would have liked. Or, was it always like that and I just never noticed? "Don't look now, but I think I've made a psychological profiler out of you."

"And I have apparently made a forensics specialist out of you."

Smiling, staring, and holding the line. I couldn't lose this – the thinking in tandem, the countering ideas, the search for justice – not ever.

"See, we're good at this," I repeated my mantra from the evening before, reassuring myself more than him.

"Damn good," he concurred.

As much as I wished he would look away, he did not. He usually broke the tension because he could read it. Was he doing it on purpose, waiting to see what I would do?

I looked past him, behind warehouse to the future retail/condominium site along the river. The answer hit me in a wave. "Booth!"

"What's wrong?"

"The river! The river is the key. I need a map of Maryland." I sprinted toward the SUV.

"What? Why?"

I frantically opened the map to show him. "See…see here…this stream connects the state park nature preserve with the Anacostia. It's only five or six miles by water from there to here."

He joined in my line of thinking. "And the playground backs up against the state park."

"So if he took the boys into the park from the playground…"

I was cut off as Booth squeezed my face between his hands and planted a firm kiss on my lips with a giant _mwah_ sound. "_You_ are a genius. Let's go."

* * *

The ride of what was five or six miles by water took nearly half an hour by road. It passed in silence—horrible, awkward silence. All he'd done was kiss me. And it wasn't even a _kiss_, it was more of a statement really – a testament to his respect for my crime-solving ability. Wasn't it? But if what happened earlier in the week hadn't happened, would he still have felt it was okay to kiss me at a crime scene like that?

Things were definitely changing despite any resistance on my part. If I was honest with myself, they'd been changing for a long time, but I was not willing to risk our partnership on a relationship that, like most relationships, would end badly. The only reasonable course of action was to continue our partnership as it always had been.

Except, what was our partnership, exactly?

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't attracted to him. I'd _noticed_ him the first time I met him at a crime scene. What woman wouldn't? But attraction was definitely no longer an appropriate word. Now, he was my best friend, and I had allowed myself to form the type of strong emotional attachment I'd shunned for years. After all, the man had taken a bullet for me, which, I reminded myself, I'd never properly thanked him for because the whole situation angered me so greatly. But the incident made me realize that I had come to _need_ him in my life, and need was not an emotion with which I have ever been comfortable. My stomach was tight as I exited the vehicle and grabbed my bag.

My partner gave only a short, "Ready?"

I gave a stiff nod and threw my bag over my shoulder as we began walking toward the stream.

The silence was deafening. Usually, Booth hated silence, but he seemed perfectly content not to speak. I couldn't help but think that nothing could ever be the same.

I ignored the thought. "This is a beautiful tract of eastern woodland," I commented. "It's nice that it is so close to the city."

"Yeah," my partner was as a dog on the scent of an escaped convict. "Beautiful. Isolated. A great place for dismembering children." He bit the words as he said them.

I admonished myself. _Idiot! He's silent because he's concentrating on this horrific case, not because of you._ "Okay, time out," I made a T-sign with my hands. "You need to detach from this. I know this is hard for you, but we must remain objective."

"Since when do you do that?"

"I've always been able to detach myself from the nature of our work."

"No, not the detachment. You're scary good at that. I meant the..." he made the T-sign with his hands.

"From you, Seeley."

He jerked his head. "Okay, that just sounds weird."

"Yes. I agree. Very awkward."

"How about you just stick with Booth?"

"You get to call my Temperance."

"Yes, but you like your first name."

"What's wrong with Seeley?"

"Nothing's _wrong _with it…but…" he stammered and stopped walking, putting his hands out as if holding something back. "Can we just stick with Booth, please?"

We started walking again, Booth using his GPS to guide us toward the stream I'd spotted on the map. I could not let it be, however. There was information to be learned here. I decided to test a hypothesis…

"So, hypothetically, if we _were_ in a relationship,"

"Hypothetically…"

"Yes, hypothetically." I looked at him for a reaction but he seemed to be concentrating very hard on his GPS screen. I continued, putting my skills as a novelist to full use, "So, hypothetically, if we _were_ in a relationship and engaged in sexual intercourse that was highly successful for both of us…"

I think he was smirking. I couldn't tell.

"And the release of endorphins enabled us to have a very restful night's sleep."

Yes, he was definitely smirking.

"You would want me to wake up in the morning and say, 'Good morning, Booth' and not 'Good morning, Seeley?'"

I wasn't sure if I was meant to hear what he muttered under his breath.

"What the hell are you trying to do to me, woman?"

"I made you uncomfortable?"

"Uncomfortable, yeah," he continued to speak in low tones as if he was speaking to himself, rather than to me, "in more ways than one." He was holding his electronic device higher and staring at it even more intently.

More ways than one? "OH!" My voice was louder and highly pitched in recognition, "You mean that your body is reacting physically to the hormone increase created by my talking about intercourse."

"Yeah, Bones, so you need to cut it out."

"But I was merely positing a hypothetical scenario in order to bring clarity to a situation."

"Bones!"

"Sorry." Not really.

We returned to silence for what I gauged was about a mile into the woods. "Why haven't you called an FBI team to search the woods?"

He glared at me.

"I know that look! Annoyed, right?"

He continued glaring.

"I'm just saying that more people could cover more ground more quickly."

"Only if the perp hadn't been caught, Bones. We're looking for more evidence, true, but he's in custody so there's no imminent threat. The Bureau isn't going to pay weekend overtime to Geier's team for a perp who's already in custody. If we find something, then we'll call them out. Geez, stop telling me how to do my job, would ya?"

We returned to silence.

The leaves on the springtime trees were not yet a thick canopy, and the days were getting longer, but we only had about another hour before we'd have to turn back for lack of daylight. It was going to be a long hour and an even longer trek back to the SUV with this silence. There was nothing to discuss about the case and there wouldn't be unless we found something. Thus, the only sounds that accompanied us as we came upon the stream were those of swaying branches and leaves cracking underfoot.

A bright yellow spot appeared through the trees.

"Bones, do you see that?" My partner froze, his whisper nearly a hiss.

"There is no backcountry camping in this park."

He nodded, removed his weapon and turned to me, "Okay, Bones, I get that telling you to stay here is useless, but we are going into an unknown situation here. You must be _silent_. Absolutely _no_ talking. You _stay back_ and follow my lead. Stay _behind_ me."

I nodded.

"Here," he handed me the revolver from his ankle holster. "Be careful."

We approached the rough campsite, moving from tree to tree. I knocked my knuckles on Booth's shoulder and pointed to resist speaking. There was a outcropping of giant boulders along the streambed. I blatantly disobeyed him, moving out on my own and heading for one flat rock that came to a point. It was covered in bloodstains. I pointed stiffly and mouthed the words, "Murder weapon."

Booth crouched to approach the tent flat on his stomach, "FBI. Exit the tent slowly."

There was no response.

"FBI. Exit the tent with your hands in the air."

Booth pressed his fingers to his lips indicating that I should remain quiet. He gingerly began unclipping the rainfly from the body of the tent. Realizing what he was doing, I tiptoed to the location and began the same procedure with the three stakes on my side. Booth abruptly grabbed my ankle and pulled me to the ground, bracing my fall with his own body.

I began to ask, "What are you doing?" but he covered my mouth, with his hand to prevent me from speaking. He leaned up to my ear and whispered tersely, "What the hell are you doing, Bones! Someone could be in there with a weapon and you're completely blind to it!" I nodded my recognition of his sentiment. "Now, I'll cover you. You need to quickly pull back the fly." I nodded stiffly, grasping the corner of the fly and preparing to rise to my feet. I ripped back the top of the tent.

"FBI. Remain still."

A horrifying sight greeted us.

Inside the tent was a hypothermic boy of about 60lbs, his skin a pale blue, his eyes wide and disoriented. Springing into action, I handed my partner's pistol back to him. He was already reaching for his phone. As I heard him relaying our GPS coordinates to the FBI command center, I unzipped the tent door and crawled inside beside the child, who was whimpering nearly imperceptibly but in such a disoriented state that my words didn't seem to register. "It's okay. We're with the FBI. Everything will be fine now. That bad man isn't coming back to hurt you. _Shhh_, everything is fine."

I untied the boy's hands and feet and removed his gag. I'd thought he might scream but he was not conscious enough to do so. His thready pulse, coloring, and the feel of his skin indicated that his core temperature was far too low. "Booth! We need to get him warm. He's not going to make it much longer."

I looked up at my partner, and watched his face turn from a stern agent, barking orders through his phone, to a worry-sick father staring at a dying boy. "Give him to me."

I slid the boy to the edge of the tent. Booth bent down and swooped the boy up into his arms.

"Bring the tent fly," he ordered.

He carried the boy to the edge of the creek to a large boulder where there was more warmth from the sun and they would be sure to be seen by an FBI team making a water approach. I wrapped the bright yellow tent fly snuggly around both Booth and the boy in his lap. Hopefully, it would produce enough warmth to help the boy survive.

I felt the urge to touch my partner, to reassure him that he was not alone in this case. To let him know that I would do everything in my power to be sure we had the evidence we needed for a conviction. I placed a hand at the back of his head and then turned to immediately begin processing the scene, before the cavalry showed up and contaminated it.

By the time the first of the forensics team arrived by water half an hour later, I had already snapped photos of the scene. There was no need for phenolphthalein solution on the murder weapon, as the blood evidence was clear. It was almost as if the flat boulder with the triangular outcropping was a sacrificial altar. I nearly wretched. I had been in many gruesome places – Guatemala, Rwanda, Ground Zero – but this scene approached those in its disregard for human life. There was clear evidence of animal activity and just within my field of vision I could clearly see at least eight places where parts of individuals had been strewn across the area. Perhaps that was why he moved the bodies to the construction site, to avoid the animals? Perhaps he was forced to dismember the bodies in order to transport them and not garner attention? I admonished myself, "Booth does why. You do how, Brennan. Just focus on the evidence."

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. It took me a moment to pull off my latex gloves before I could answer. "Brennan."

"You alright?"

Why was Booth calling me when he was less than 100 yards away? "Yes. I'm fine. This is going to take several hours. Maybe until morning."

"Make sure we get what we need to nail this bastard, Bones."

"You know I will."

"Yeah, I know. You're the best. I'll bring you some coffee when I come back." I looked up to see my partner, still holding the boy under the tarp, on a boat headed for the city and warmth.

"Thanks." I needed to say something. I knew what he was thinking – why he was leaving the scene with the child. "Booth, you couldn't have known. There was no evidence of another victim."

"Sure, Bones." The self-deprecation in his voice was clear, even to me. "I'll see you later, alright."

"Yeah."

The call went silent. I stared, as his yellow-wrapped form grew smaller and smaller and finally vanished around the bend in the creek. Remaining frozen for a moment, as if examining the spot where he disappeared, I remembered sitting on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial with Booth after the June Harris case. We'd talked about a simple card game I'd played with my father and I'd said that if I were conducting an objective experiment by observing my father's behavior, I'd have to conclude that he loved me. It was a simple moment, really. Not one of pomp or fanfare, but just a moment of realization.

Now, all of my thinking throughout _this _day – the questions I'd asked myself at the construction site, the conversation I'd had with myself in the car, the awkward privilege I felt in addressing my partner by his given name – joined to create a simple moment of realization. Booth was the only person in the world who truly knew me. He supported me and never asked me to be anything I'm not. I had a family again because of _him_. All he'd needed to do on that witness stand was say that I didn't have the time to commit the crime, but I begged him with my eyes from across the courtroom and he incriminated me. Deep down, I knew hurt him to do so.

In light of all he'd done, his overprotective nature seemed of little consequence. Those actions, though completely unnecessary, were not taken because he thinks me incapable. He respects and trusts me. When he says, "You're a genius," or "You're the best," he means it. I guess I've known that all along.

I stood for a moment with eyes closed and pulled from my memory the way he looked when he looked at me _that way_. Even in my imagination, his smile spread warmth through my body.

"I have to conclude that he loves me," I noted to myself.

I sighed and snapped on new latex. Back to work.


	6. Chapter 6

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Chapter 6

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**Sunday, 6:00am**

As the first rays of dawn peeked through the trees, I still had no coffee…and no partner. The trek back to the main road of the state park was made in the company of Dr. Soroyan, who, it occurred to me, knew my partner better than most people – probably better than me. Envy is not logical, but I had to admit I felt some.

"Booth still hasn't called?" Dr. Soroyan asked.

"No. How did you know?"

"I was a cop, remember. I can read people. You look worried."

"If that little boy dies, Cam, I don't think he will forgive himself."

"Probably not. He'll just carry it around like he does all the others. Wide shoulders on that one."

"Booth's shoulders are average for someone of his height and build."

Cam just offered me a blank stare. I had learned the look. When I saw it on Cam or Angela or Booth it usually meant I'd missed something. "Oh," I offered. "You were being metaphorical."

I couldn't remember the last time I was this tired. My rhomboids and trapezius muscles ached from staring at the ground for hours. The vastus intermedius head of my quadricep muscle ached from squatting. The extensors in my hand ached from carefully gripping the small trowel. But more than these nuisance pains, I had a pain in my chest that I couldn't pinpoint to any muscle or activity. It was just a general ache that, I observed, got worse each time I wondered about my partner.

My boss (was she my friend?) interrupted my thoughts. "Dr. Brennan, is everything alright with you two? You seem…off."

I knew I should answer that all was well. But I was simply too exhausted and it seemed to me that, rationally, Cam might be the one person whose insights might be helpful.

"Can I ask your opinion on something?"

"Shoot."

"What?"

"Ask me."

"Have you always found Booth to be…overly respectful?"

Cam laughed, "Almost to the point that he's boring sometimes."

I smiled too. "He does cling to a strong set of cultural norms."

Cam continued, "Dr. Brennan, there's no one he respects more than you."

"I'd have to say the same about him," I observed.

We finished the last five hundred yards to the van in silence. As Cam loaded the metallic case of samples into the back of the Jeffersonian van, she offered an unexpected piece of advice. "You should know that out of respect for you, he won't move unless you say go."

What? I nearly choked. Unless I said go? I'd been completely preoccupied with reading him. I'd not yet given my own thoughts a thorough examination.

"It isn't that simple, Cam."

"I know." She added with a smile as the doors slammed shut, "But sometimes, it should be."

* * *

**Sunday, 3:00pm**

I awoke to the feel of fingers, brushing hair from my forehead and pulling a blanket over my shoulders.

He spoke when I opened my eyes. "I didn't expect to come home and find Sleeping Beauty on my couch."

"Booth!" I sprang from underneath the blanket he'd so carefully placed. "Where have you been? Why weren't you answering your phone?"

"I had something I needed to do. And I didn't want to return your call because I figured you were sleeping. But, I didn't figure you were sleeping here."

I plopped back to the sofa. As my mind cleared of fog I looked up at my partner. "The boy?"

"Tyson Bouton. From a group home in Columbia Heights. Ten years old."

"A kid in the system?"

"Yup. No one even noticed he was missing."

"That's what you've been doing? Trying to figure out who the boy was?" I'd never seen Booth look so deflated.

"Yeah. The hospital needed to know." He answered my next question before I had a chance to ask it. "He's fine. They put him in a warming bed. He was awake and alert when I left."

I let out a sigh of relief, but my partner didn't seem to share in the emotion. "Booth, there was no evidence to suggest that there was another…"

"That doesn't make it okay, Bones," he cut me off and plopped down beside me. "I don't want to think about it right now. Too tired."

"What time is it?" I enquired.

"Three in the afternoon." He was clearly exhausted. "Bones, why exactly are you in my apartment?"

"You weren't answering your phone. I was worried and I figured you'd show up here eventually."

"You were worried?"

"Yes!"

He looked at me with narrowed eyes.

"What? I worry!" Didn't he know I worried about him? "Is it so _odd_ that I worry about my partner?"

He was smiling with his eyelids already half-closed. He'd been at least thirty hours without sleep. I'm not sure if he was fully conscious when he made the decision to grab a pillow from the sofa and curl into my lap. He barely managed to get his shoes off and his striped feet onto the sofa before exhaustion overtook him. Just before falling asleep he mumbled, "I'm glad you're here, Bones."

"Me, too," I answered, fingering his hair. "Me, too."

I was. Glad. Glad that he was all right. Glad the boy was all right. Glad that this case was _finally_ over. Glad that we had what we needed to bring Mackevey to justice. And somehow, glad to sit with Booth's head in my lap and run my fingers through his hair.

Why did I feel so comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time? Why did I go to his apartment when I have my own apartment to sleep in? Somehow, upon leaving the Jeffersonian, I just couldn't bring myself to return to a place I knew he was not. I couldn't explain it.

That's what this whole thing was to me—inexplicable. Indefinable.

Terrifying.

I lifted his head just enough to slip out from under him. Suddenly, I was cold. I turned to look at him, and I realized that I didn't want to be standing in the middle of the room. I wanted to be on the sofa, curled up next to him. The need to feel him was consuming. I ached to be closer to him, and I was only a few feet away.

I stared at him and wondered, did he know that he had the power to break me?

I chose the door rather than the sofa.

* * *

**Monday Morning, 9:00am**

We met with Caroline on Monday morning.

She started the meeting with her usual directness as she strutted into his office, "Please tell me that this is going to be an open and shut case."

"Should be, Caroline," Booth assured her. "We caught him at the construction site and, thanks to my partner's genius, we have the murder weapon and murder scene."

I knew, by any type of scientific test, I actually _was_ a genius, yet somehow, hearing him say it was better than knowing it. Still, I would never have figured out the crime scene if not for my partner's forensics demonstration. I looked up at him from where I was sitting in his chair that is not as comfortable as it looks. "You're the one who knew that pipe from the factory couldn't be the weapon."

"Yes, but you're the one who determined the importance of the river." His pelvis was leaning on the desk, but his shoulders were leaning in, verbally challenging me. Then, he suddenly broke into an earth-shattering smile. He leaned in closer, breathed deeply through his nose and narrowed his eyes at me.

For once, I knew why he was staring at me.

"Excuse me, did I miss something here? Seeley Booth, _why_ are you grinnin' like a fool?"

Booth moved away, "Because I'm glad this case is over, Caroline. I have more important matters to attend to." He never took his eyes from me.

"Alright," the prosecutor turned to leave, "Whatever you say, Chere. Have a nice day you two."

I stood to follow her. Booth grabbed my arm.

"Bones."

"Not here."

"I know." The look on his face begged me not to go.

"Soon," I lied.

He nodded and released my arm.

I tapped my toe violently as I thrust my thumb into the elevator button for the third time. I'd just lied straight-faced to the most important person in my life.

I heard the mumbled voices behind me.

"What's wrong with Booth?"

"He always walks her to the elevator."

"Trouble in paradise?"

Annoyed, I took the stairs.

---------------

**Monday, 11:00pm**

"World War II?" he enquired, still a silhouette in the doorway to the room where I was leaning over my lighted table.

"Korea," I replied. "His family has been missing him for nearly 60 years. If it's who the army thinks it is, his wife is still alive. They wanted a certain identification before telling her."

"And did you get it?"

"Yes. This is definitely Sargeant First Class John Koloski." I set the file down and looked at him. "He was a Ranger. One of the first."

"Really?"

I nodded. Booth dropped his head and whispered _sua sponte_ while crossing himself.

I turned back to the file and finished my notes. He waited patiently in the corner. Was he aware that I was avoiding him? Of course he was. He'd probably checked my apartment first and not found me there.

"Did you go to my apartment?"

"No." He approached from his corner. "I figured you were here…avoiding me."

"I am not avoiding you, Booth! The Mackevey case put me far behind on my other identifications. I need to get caught up on my work."

"It's almost midnight, Bones."

"The dead have no concept of time."

He put his hands flat on the side of the table and leaned over it.

"Booth, you're contaminating the table." I batted at his hands. He didn't flinch.

"You're balking."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

I had no response for him. I just couldn't do this and I couldn't find the words to explain it to him. I couldn't explain it to myself. Instead I turned and repacked the bones into their casket.

He followed me to my office, silently. I checked my email. He sat on the sofa. I finished my notes from three identifications that had been on hold because of Mackevey. He sat on the sofa. I made some changes my editor suggested to chapter fourteen of my newest novel. He put up his feet and lay down on the sofa, pretending to read _Anthropology Today_. I stood to go to the ladies room.

"Booth, I'm going to the ladies room. You can't come."

"Nope. But I can stand outside the door."

"No!" I pointed a finger at him and headed for the ladies room. "Booth. Stop it."

He didn't.

"Stop following me."

He still was.

"STOP!" I finally shouted. "Go away, Booth. I don't want this. Just go away and let things go back to how they were before!"

My stomach fell when I saw his face.

"Right. Sure, Bones. I guess maybe I'll see you later in the week. I'll call when we have a case." He turned and walked through the glass doors, tossing his poker chip in the air.

It was in that moment that I realized that maybe I had the power to break him, too.

---------------

A/N: I have to admit that I LOVE candid!Cam. I wrote that part of the fic long before she showed up in _Critic_ or _Harbingers_.

Only one more chapter to go…and it's a BIG one…the longest of the fic. Thanks to all of you who have left such kind reviews and to those of you who have put this story on alert. Some of you have even added it to your favorite stories list, which is very flattering. I was worried about my Brennan interpretation, but your many kind reviews have belayed some of those fears. My sincere thanks.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** I want to say thanks to all of you who have read my story. As I went back and did my final editing, I couldn't help but notice how different these characters are between season four and now. I almost feel like I'm writing a different Booth and Brennan than I see on my TV each week. I guess, in a way, I am. As much as I felt cheated by the end of last season, I have to say that the producers and writers have been very creative in how they've approached these two. I love where they are right now and it's going to be a great ride to the end of the season. Anyway, I hope that you will enjoy my early-season-four Brennan and that this ending will warrant the excitement some of you have expressed in your reviews. Thanks so much for reading!

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Chapter 7

---------------

**Wednesday, 8:30pm**

I didn't see or speak with Booth for two days. He said he'd call if we had a case. Apparently, we didn't. Because of that, I'd gotten an inordinate amount of work done in Modular Skeletal Storage. I'd identified seven sets of remains in two days, and sent comments on two chapters of a graduate student's dissertation.

But tonight, as I clicked off the monitor on my computer, I didn't feel like going home. I walked down the few blocks to the diner. Standing on the street corner, ready to cross, I saw a couple sitting at the table that Booth and I usually occupy when we patronize the establishment. I'd not seen them before. They were young and dressed professionally, and he was leaning across the table so far that, to a trained anthropologist's eye, it was clear he was invading her personal space in an effort to mark her as a potential mate.

I sat at the counter.

"Why, Dr. Brennan, where is that handsome man of yours? He's usually with you this time of night." LaVerne, the night waitress, commented as she poured the decaf I hadn't ordered.

Man of mine?

"Excuse me?"

"Agent Booth. Where is he this evening?"

"He's not…We're not…"

I sighed.

"At this time in the evening, he is most likely at home." Why did she assume I knew his whereabouts? He could be anywhere, for all I knew. We'd not spoken in two days or exchanged so much as an email. I didn't know where he was. He didn't know where I was.

Staring into my coffee, I couldn't compartmentalize that. I'd gotten used to knowing where he was. I'd gotten used to Booth knowing where _I_ was, all of the time. I'd come to accept it to the point that I found comfort in it.

That scared me.

But, not knowing where he was, and Booth not knowing that I was sitting at the Diner without him—that scared me more.

And so I ended up on Mr. Lincoln's steps with a warm piece of cherry cobbler in one hand and my finger poised over the SEND button with the other.

_Meet me at Lincoln. I have pie._

I was nearly ready to stand and do some jumping to ward off the chill.

"Hey, Bones."

His voice came from the monument behind me.

"Hey." I held out the polystyrene container. "It was still warm from the oven when I left the Diner."

"Thanks." He took the container from my hands but seemed reluctant to say anything further.

"You haven't called." I blurted.

"You told me to go away."

"I said I wanted things to go back to the way they were before."

"And I said I'd call if we have a case."

"But before…"

"Before?"

"You used to call whether we had a case or not. You always cared about where I was."

"I know where you were. You were in Limbo, listening to the dead."

"The dead cannot speak, Booth. They're dead."

"They speak to _you_."

"I do not use my sense of hearing to determine cause and manner of death, Booth. I use my _eyes_. The truth is there for the seeing. I just happen to be the best at seeing it."

He let out a sigh, sat two steps up and one meter away from me, popped open the top of the container, and stabbed the cobbler with the fork. For the next five minutes, he didn't speak other than to mumble, "Damn, that's good," to himself.

After depositing the container and plastic fork in the nearby trash receptacle, he returned to the steps, stretching his legs out straight and leaning back on his elbows. My partner, usually quick to act in any situation was staring into the sky, as if he was searching for the stars hidden behind the wash of city lights.

When he finally did speak, it was almost inaudible.

"Can you not see the truth in me?"

I didn't know what to say.

"Sometimes," I replied.

"When?"

"I can see the truth in your bones. On cases like this, your gate changes. Your pelvis tilts and your thoracic vertebrae round. Your scapulae move apart when you slump over your desk, and the muscles in your forehead twitch while you are waiting for the one piece of the puzzle that will complete the picture for you. The truth is this case bothered you intensely and I'm sorry for that. I know that you blame yourself for that little boy's ordeal."

"Like you said, there was no evidence." He didn't sound convinced.

"No, there wasn't, but I know you, Booth. You put everyone – your family, your friends, even the anonymous dead – before yourself out of some irrational sense of atonement for lives taken or left unprotected. It's not logical and I'm not sure I'll ever understand it, but I do respect it."

He finally made eye contact with me.

"Thanks, Bones."

A momentary relief. I'd apparently said the right thing. Encouraged, I tried again.

"When I see you like that, I want to be able to help you."

"You helped."

"I found the murder weapon. I collected all of the evidence required for a successful conviction on both kidnapping and murder charges. But I meant that I didn't help you, as my partner. Intellectually, I understand the need for comfort in such situations, but I'm not a heart person. I never know how to act."

"Bones, you acted just fine this week." He chuckled. "_More_ than fine. All week, you knew exactly how to help me when I needed it the most. For God's sake, you picked my son up at school and brought him to visit me! And that had to be because somehow you knew that I was angry that I'd missed my weekend with him and that seeing him would make my day. I never told you, so you obviously figured it out. And earlier in the week, Bones…" There it was. The _topic._ My abdomen clenched. "You knew _exactly_ what I needed."

"Then why did you stop?"

"I told you why."

"But I _was_ choosing it, Booth. I was very clearly consenting."

"Yes. You were. Very clearly." Was that laughter or frustration I heard in his voice?

I enunciated each word as I repeated my question, "Then why did you stop?"

He sighed. "Because we were both consenting, but neither one of us was choosing."

"Subtle distinctions like that are lost on me."

He started chuckling again. "Call me old-fashioned, Bones, but the first time we're…together…I'd like to be able to take our time and do it right."

"I didn't see anything wrong with the way we were doing it. I'm an excellent sexual partner, Booth."

Now he was definitely laughing. "I don't doubt it for a second, Bones."

I must have had an utterly confused look on my face. His laughter subsided and his voice took on a softer quality – the one he used when explaining something to me about human nature.

"Do you really not know why?"

"We're partners. We work in dangerous jobs that require us to be objective in tense situations. Sex complicates those situations, which can put us a greater risk for work-related injury or loss of life."

"That is a true statement." He slid closer. "But I don't think it's going to complicate the situation any more than it already is."

"Why?"

"Because, Bones. If someone is threatening or harming you, I am definitely not going to be objective about it, and that isn't going to change whether we've had sex or not." He leaned in even a little bit more. "But that's not why I stopped."

I bit my bottom lip and turned away. If I kept looking at him I was going to have to kiss him and that was what had caused this problem in the first place.

"I know."

The blinking double light atop Mr. Washington's obelisk was suddenly very captivating. I starred at it…on…off…on…off. The constancy was somehow soothing. I spoke at the hidden stars as my partner had earlier.

"I'm afraid."

"Me, too."

My head found its way to his shoulder, which seemed an odd place of comfort considering the situation. But somewhere in the small action of making contact I found my courage.

"Booth, are you in love with me?"

"Yes."

My eyes welled immediately. The muscles in my face twisted and contorted and my abdomen tensed. I opened my mouth in what was sure to be a sob, but instead the corners turned upward and a laugh released from deep within me. Soon, my torso was shaking in a regular pattern. I tried to contain it, but my action only resulted in stifled snorts.

"Bones?"

"I'm sor- I'm sorry- I'm- I'm-" my attempts at speaking were foiled by rolling laughter. "It just that… I'm sure…that there's some…culturally appropriate…reaction…but…I don't know…what it is." I erupted into a fit of giggles.

"What's gotten into you?"

Relief. Relief had gotten into me. I couldn't remember a time when I felt so light.

I took a few deep breaths and managed to calm myself enough to speak. "I'm sorry. Did I offend you?" I was still fighting hard for control.

"Nah, of course not, I mean, every man wants a woman to laugh uncontrollably when he tells her he's in love with her. Wasn't that in your anthropology textbooks?"

His sarcasm registered immediately. He was definitely offended. I hadn't meant to laugh. It just came out.

I needed to understand.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, Bones. I'm sure."

"How do you know?"

"I have a better idea." He shifted his weight back to both elbows, as if he was preparing for a long discussion. "Let's do this your way. You need to make sense of this rationally. You need evidence, right? Fine. How do _you_ know I'm in love with you?"

His voice carried an edge that I couldn't quite place.

"What?"

"What evidence do you see?"

"Why do I feel like a suspect you're interrogating?"

"Bones, I'm trying to help."

"No. I've learned how this works, Booth. You're trying to throw me off guard so that I'll talk to you and give you the answers that you want, right? Isn't that how it works?"

Booth clenched his teeth. "You know, sometimes you are the most aggravating person on the planet. Just answer the question, Bones."

"But what if I can't give you the answers that you want?"

"Bones. Just answer the question." His look begged me to trust him and that was definitely something I could do, even if I wasn't sure I could trust myself. I paused and thought. This should be easy. I'd been through the evidence in my mind a significant number of times in the past week.

"You know my favorite things."

He nodded.

"And you care about where I am, all the time."

"Yes, I do."

"And you always know when to talk to me and when to give me space."

His smile turned inward, as if he were smiling to himself rather than at me.

"And sometimes…sometimes…" I drifted. This was difficult. "Sometimes, when you look at me, I can just…I can just tell."

"Careful there, Bones." He teased me with raised eyebrows and a sideways smile that made me want to kiss it off his face. "You start making decisions with your gut and you'll get us both into trouble."

Silence returned, but not so uncomfortable as before. This time, I felt oddly warm.

"You know what else?" He had the same look on his face he had when he'd given his little forensics demonstration at the crime scene – as if he'd raised his hand in class when he knew he had the right answer.

"You're all about showing off what you know lately, aren't you?"

He inched a bit closer to me. "I know that you stay late working in your office and skip meals more often than you should. But I also know that you do it because you believe in your work. You believe that the unknown dead deserve a face and a name and a story."

Now _I_ was smiling.

"And I know that you're beautiful when you sleep. I mean, you're beautiful all the time, but when you sleep the walls come down. Your face is full of warmth, and innocence, and vulnerability and all of the things that I get to see that for the rest of the world are hidden behind your science and your shiny lab."

I could not help but notice that he spoke the words _science_ and _shiny_ with a hint of disdain.

"When have you ever watched me sleep?" I felt oddly offended and flattered at the same time.

His cheeks showed just a tinge of red. "Well…Vegas…Texas…but mostly when I come to check on you and you've fallen asleep on the couch in your office." He reached for a strand of my hair that was hanging in front of my shoulder, rubbing the tips between his fingers. "It's a privilege to have you as my partner, Bones, and I consider it an honor to have earned your trust. But loving you…being _allowed _ to love you…I can't think of a higher honor than that."

I'd skipped right past glistening eyes and headed straight for near weeping. I had no idea what to say to him. No one had ever said such things to me before.

I don't know how much time passed between the end of his little speech and moment his lips met mine. He kissed me this time, tentatively, as if he was asking me if it was okay. When I complied, there was no questioning it. He slid one hand behind my head, tightly weaving his fingers into my hair, placed the other at my waist and pulled me into him, forcing my back to arch over the steps. I willingly leaned into his hand as my head fell back. It seemed there was no more use in fighting it. I was here, kissing my partner at the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. I ached with wanting and, unless the nerve endings in my hip were sending false signals, so did he. I wanted so badly to stop my questioning mind.

"Mmmm, you do love me," he whispered and lowered his caresses to my mandible and throat.

"How do you know?"

"Vanilla," he whispered as his lips settled in the notch just above my sternum.

I'd spent fifteen minutes staring at the bottle of shampoo on the shelf, knowing full well what the purchase signified.

I grabbed the collar of his jacket and shook him in frustration.

"I want to be able to trust what I feel!"

He moved away at my outburst. I stood and paced.

"I want to believe that the release of neurochemicals I'm experiencing is more than science can explain. I want to know that if I allow myself this I'll still be the same person tomorrow, and I want to be certain that it's okay to feel that way, despite the fact that it is a completely false premise based on the ridiculous notion that intercourse can somehow change the makeup of one's DNA! I want to know that the FBI won't split us up when they find out. I want to be certain that I'm not trading my partner for a lover and a relationship that, statistically speaking, will end."

"Bones."

"Wait."

I turned back to him. His eyes were glassy, like I'd only seen them maybe once before. I'm not sure I would ever use the adjective _vulnerable_ to describe my partner. But in that moment—the way he was standing backlit by the monument, shadows across his face, hands in his pockets—it seemed a fitting description. He really was just as afraid of losing everything as I was. I took his hand and saw his chest expand with a deep intake of air at the contact.

"I'm not done yet." I mirrored his deep breath with my own and finally let the words come. "I want to be able to dismiss the statistics and trust you, because in any other situation, I would, without question. I want to believe that love means that statistics don't matter."

And then he was hugging me. Clinging might be a more accurate description. I was clinging, too.

Slowly, the chaos began to disappear. The whirling contradictions and the spinning questions, the nagging doubts and the indecisiveness of the week vanished more and more as he started in again, running his lips along my mandible. My chin tilted of it's own accord to allow him access. He was so warm and soft and…_Booth_…and for the first time I thought that maybe foreplay wasn't overrated after all. In leaned in and captured his lips.

"Booth?"

"Yeah?"

"You taste like pie."

He was still caressing, still kissing. I felt him smile against my neck.

"That wasn't pie, Bones. It was cobbler."

His hands were everywhere.

"Well, I don't really see the difference. The fruit was cooked."

"You can see a shift in the distance between my shoulder blades, but you can't see the difference between cobbler and pie?" He leaned into my ear and whispered, "No crust, no pie."

Teeth on my earlobe.

"But the only pie they had left was meringue and you don't like meringue."

"Bones." By this time he was buried in my collarbone. "Do you really want to argue about this right now?"

"No."

Lips again.

"Good."

More lips. More hands. More tongues. More…everything. We needed to stop before we got arrested.

"Bones."

"Hmmm?"

"Stop thinking."

"I can't."

He pulled back and grinned at me wildly.

"All right, that's it."

He picked me up and threw me over his shoulder.

"Booth put me down! Put me down now!" He was not complying with my demands as he headed around the memorial to the SUV. "I am plenty capable of defending myself!"

It was too late, the passenger door was open and he plopped me down onto the ground, boxing me with one arm on the car's frame and the other on the door. "Defending yourself from what, Bones?"

Fear. Loneliness. Abandonment. These words were only fleeting in my mind.

"Nothing." I smiled. "I'm done defending myself."

He just stood there, looking at me in that way I'd come to realize was only for me.

"Bones. Did you just speak in metaphor?"

"Maybe. I am a best selling author you know."

"Yeah. I know."

He kissed my forehead and then jogged to the driver's side. "Twenty minutes, Bones."

"Twenty minutes until what?"

"Starting in twenty minutes, you won't be able to think no matter how hard you try." His smile, at this point, was absolutely full of mischief. He was pretty damn sure of himself.

"Booth, your apartment is twenty minutes away. I doubt I will stop thinking the moment we walk in the door."

He just looked at me from his seat and raised his brows.

I laughed.

"Booth?"

"Yeah."

"Can we just drive please?"

He nodded and the engine roared to life. I put my hand on the console, hoping he'd take it. He did.

We rode in silence. It wasn't awkward or empty. It was full.

Very, very full.

As Washington whirred by outside the window, I closed my eyes.

And stopped thinking.


End file.
